


Influence

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Best Friends, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Secret Crush, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Masaomi should have known better than to let his guard down just because Izaya was quiet." Kida has a request to make of Izaya. Things go very much not as he expects; the fallout goes very much not as Izaya expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kida-kun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Masaomi should have known better than to let his guard down just because Izaya was quiet.

It’s not like he doesn’t know to be on-edge. He has thought through this entire conversation more than once, has delayed even  _having_  it because the idea of being in the same room as Izaya Orihara sounds like a risk too great to possibly make up for the payout. But Ikebukuro is getting more dangerous by the day, and Mikado keeps getting more and more involved in it, and Masaomi has to try  _something_.

So it came to this, laughing off Mikado’s invitation to go downtown together on a Saturday so Masaomi could catch the train out of the district instead, following text-message directions to a remarkably ordinary-looking apartment complex. There was really no reason that Izaya should live in the dark looming castle Masaomi had always half-imagined, but it was still strange to have the building look so normal, the lobby unremarkable right down to the vending machine next to the elevator. Masaomi took the elevator up to the top floor, nerves rising higher in time with his own ascent until the doors opened to an airy expanse more like a museum than an apartment.

It was easier once he started talking. Izaya had barely spoken, for once, had leaned back against the desk in front of the window and watched as Masaomi worked through the entirety of his planned speech about how Mikado isn’t related to anything important, and how he won’t be of any use in any plots, how Izaya has nothing at all to gain from communicating with him.

He’s on a roll, has hit his stride between planned statements and improvisation, is satisfied even with the put-on resonance of his own voice when Izaya does move, all at once. He straightens from the desk, reaching up to stretch his arms above his head, and all Masaomi’s self-satisfaction evaporates into panicked silence so there’s a pause into which Izaya can speak.

“You’re a very helpful person to have around,” he says, consideringly, like he’s appreciating the words on his tongue, and Masaomi feels a chill slide down his spine. “You don’t even realize how much you give away with every sentence you speak. You’re just throwing information at me; you should be more thoughtful, it’s hard to keep up.”

Masaomi takes a step back even though Izaya hasn’t moved; the distance between them suddenly feels like not-enough, dangerously near under the circumstances. He tries a laugh, though it falls flat even in his throat, sounds like more of a whimper of desperation before he can manage, “I’m not telling you anything.”

Izaya’s smile feels like a knife held to Masaomi’s throat even from across the room. “My mistake.” It’s a taunt, Masaomi can hear it clear; his flight response pushes him back, sends him stumbling towards the door and out of the pool of light spilling through the window behind Izaya. “Is that all you had to tell me? You made it sound like it was something important.”

Masaomi shakes his head, reaches behind him for the door handle so he can turn and escape. “That’s everything.” His voice is cracking, fear of something he can’t frame, but the handle is turning under his grip and he’s nearly out, very nearly free from the pressure of oncoming danger creeping up his spine.

Then “I’ll make sure to tell your boyfriend you were worried about him,” Izaya purrs, and Masaomi’s hand freezes on the door.

He can’t even attempt a laugh, this time. “What?” There’s cold silence from behind him; Masaomi can’t hear anything but the desperate catch of his breathing speeding in his throat. “Mikado’s not my boyfriend.”

Izaya’s laugh is so close Masaomi jumps, flinches away from the rush of air against the back of his neck. When he twists Izaya is leaning in, pushing him cringing back against the wall with all thought of escape forgotten in utterly cold fright.

“Liar,” Izaya says, the word hissing over his teeth like a threat, and Masaomi whimpers, tries to duck away with nowhere to go as Izaya leans in. “You came all the way out here to talk to someone you’re terrified of in defense of a  _friend_?”

“Best friend,” Masaomi manages, self-preservation trying to satisfy Izaya’s rhetorical question so he can escape. “I like girls.”

Izaya’s eyebrows come up, his mouth falling into the shape of put-upon sympathy twisted over amusement. “ _And_?” He takes another step, so close now his knee is bumping against Masaomi’s thigh. “That’s got nothing to do with what we’re talking about, Kida-kun.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Masaomi attempts in the moment before Izaya’s fingers land against the side of his neck and his throat closes up on sound completely.

“There’s no attraction between you at all,” Izaya says, sounding like he’s fighting back laughter as his fingertips slide along the edge of Masaomi’s shirt. “You’ve never thought of him while you jerked off?” His knee comes in sideways, slides between Masaomi’s, and he’s way too close now but Masaomi can’t get his hands up, can’t move or breathe or do anything but freeze like a deer in headlights. “I bet you never pictured him while you were taking a shower, never thought about the way the water would trail across his bare skin or splash off the curve of his back where it --”

“Shut  _up_ ,” and Masaomi’s hand comes up, defensiveness of this his last secret making him desperate for silence. Izaya catches it without even looking, shoves it flat to the wall above Masaomi’s head. The impact is jarring, the angle of his arm painful, but Izaya’s leaning in closer and all Masaomi can focus on are the sharp white edges of his teeth.

“Aww,” Izaya pouts. “You don’t like to hear the truth?” He’s leaning in, his hip digging bruises into Masaomi’s skin from the pressure, the fingers of his free hand trailing over Masaomi’s hip. He’s still over the other’s clothing but the threat is clear without him putting words to it, until Masaomi’s push at Izaya’s shoulder is too shaky to effect any motion at all. It just makes Izaya laugh, bright and white in Masaomi’s periphery, and then his hand is dipping down, fingers digging sharp pressure in against the other’s zipper. Masaomi flinches, more from the telltale heat of his body than from the push itself, and Izaya pulls back by an inch, far enough that he can slide his thumb over and across to push at the button of Masaomi’s jeans.

“Don’t you want help with that?” He’s sliding the zipper down, Masaomi’s head is ringing with panic and inopportune arousal and he can’t clear away the images formed by Izaya’s words, the bright of Mikado’s smile and the shape of his shoulders under his school uniform, the way his hands go warm and soft when Masaomi touches his fingers. But Izaya keeps talking, the images going dark in the shadow of his voice, Masaomi cringing back like he can protect his fledgling fantasies from Izaya’s contamination. “You could pretend I’m him. Shut your eyes and call me Mikado and I’ll suck you off, you’ll never know the difference.”

Masaomi blinks hard, forces his eyes as wide open as they’ll go. “No way,” he spits, vicious with stubbornness at this last final point, and Izaya laughs in his face.

“Suit yourself,” and he’s reaching past Masaomi’s boxers, fingers skimming across sensitive skin, and Masaomi is jerking, not sure if he’s trying to flinch away as his brain is desperate for him to do or rock forward as his traitorous body suggests. It doesn’t matter much anyway; he can’t get away, not with his arm twisted up over his head like it is, and Izaya’s touch is steady in spite of Masaomi’s reflexive motion, his fingers settling into a hold on the other’s half-hard cock.

“Think about Mikado,” Izaya purrs, and Masaomi wishes he didn’t flush harder at the very sound of the other’s name but he does, any lingering denial of his own interest long since melted away. He wishes he could shut his eyes, wishes he could give in to the suggestion of this fantasy, but there’s no way he’s going to let Izaya have that, no way he’s going to let that part of his life -- the best part of his life -- get tarred with the same darkness as everything else. So he keeps his eyes open, stares Izaya down when all he wants to do is flinch away.

There’s a flicker behind Izaya’s eyes, something that might be respect underneath a heavy layer of amusement. “No?” His grip tightens, his fingers twist sideways. “Fine.” His hand jerks, dragging unwanted heat into Masaomi’s veins, and Izaya hums, “Think about me, instead.”

It’s harder to do. Even with the real thing right in front of him, there’s no surge of warmth in Masaomi’s blood at the thought that it’s Izaya’s fingers on him instead of his own, nothing but far-off appreciation of the other’s technique too minor to override the chill of panic running over his skin. But that’s all inside Masaomi’s head; his body is torn for a minute, but then the steady friction of Izaya’s fingers becomes too much to resist, the burn over him starts to melt into physical pleasure in complete disregard of his thoughts. Masaomi is starting to shiver against the wall, pushing harder at Izaya’s shoulder to cover up the reflexive reaction, but with the other’s fingers pressing in against him he’s hardly likely to miss the heat.

“I knew you’d come around,” Izaya purrs, his thumb slipping slick against the head of Masaomi’s cock. It makes Masaomi jerk, brings his breathing tightening into a moan before he can stop the sound, and then Izaya is laughing in truth, a high uncontrolled burst of amusement to match the sudden speed of his fingers. It’s too much sensation, the burn aching under Masaomi’s skin, but his body is desperate to keep up, his cock spilling pre-come against the other’s fingers so his strokes go smoother with the lubrication. There’s no chance, now, of Masaomi losing track of where he is to a fantasy; this is too real, this shuddering revulsion in the back of his head and this trembling heat under his skin at all odds with his thoughts. He’s leaning hard against the wall, feeling the sensation rise in his blood almost like nausea, and then Izaya jerks his hand up and tightens his grip and the inevitable hits Masaomi all at once.

There’s no real pleasure in the orgasm; it’s just heat, distant from any kind of psychological satisfaction, until Masaomi feels more dizzy from the pool of warmth in the pit of his stomach than anything else. The strange sense of free-fall vertigo lingers for a moment; then Izaya slides his hand free and wipes his sticky fingers across Masaomi’s hip.

“You’ll always think of me, now,” he says, and Masaomi feels suddenly, violently ill. Izaya lets his arm go and Masaomi reaches for his jeans, the need to drag the protection of his clothes back around him far more important now than attempting to get any sort of physical revenge. Izaya watches him, his mouth twisting on a smile like he can see right through Masaomi’s futile attempt at protection, like it’s useless from the start. “Good luck with your romance,” he drawls, and Masaomi turns away, faces the door so Izaya won’t see the way his expression crumples into trembling horror. “I’ll leave you two alone to work that out. You have more than enough to deal with, now, without me getting in the way.”

Masaomi doesn’t answer. His throat is tight, on a scream or tears he’s not sure which, and all he knows is that after he leaves this place no power on earth will induce him to come back. His skin is cold, clammy with chilled sweat, his palm slipping on the handle before he can twist it open.

Even when he shuts the door behind him, he can hear Izaya’s laughter through the frame.


	2. Tanaka Taro

It takes Mikado a moment to react to the knock on his door.

It’s not that he’s asleep; he’s been awake for an hour, is showered and dressed and halfway through a cup of instant ramen as a stand-in for a more reasonable breakfast. But he’s not expecting any visitors this morning or in fact this  _day_ , and it takes him a few seconds to pull together the recollection of how to behave with others. Then he has to set his cup down, lock his computer screen, and by the time he’s reaching for the door handle there’s another knock, a little faster and a little louder.

“Sorry,” Mikado offers as he unfastens the lock and pulls the door open. “I was --” Then he sees who it is on the other side of the door, and the worst of his public-persona tension flickers out again. “Masaomi!”

Masaomi offers a smile, a little lopsided and not touching as much of his eyes as usual, but when Mikado steps unthinking out of the doorway he takes the offer without any hesitation.

“Sorry for dropping by unannounced,” he says as he moves past the other. Mikado pushes the door shut, refastens the lock, and by the time he turns back around all he can see of Masaomi are his shoulders, hunched in under the line of his open coat. “But you’re always ready to see your best friend, right, Mikado?”

Mikado hesitates, not because Masaomi is wrong in his assumption but-- “Are you okay?” He steps forward, reaches out to touch Masaomi’s shoulder gently. “You sound a little weird.”

“Ah, it’s nothing!” Masaomi declares, pivoting on his heel to face Mikado. They’re a lot closer now, the other boy’s hunch tipping him forward into Mikado’s space, and whatever unusual tension may be visible on his features is impossible to see under the blaze of his smile. “But Mikado.” His hand comes out, drops heavy on the other’s shoulder as his face falls into lines of intensity. Mikado can feel himself starting to smile, amusement at Masaomi’s usual melodrama insisting on expression before the other has even spoken. “There is something I must tell you.” Masaomi shuts his eyes, heaves a sigh, lifts his free hand to his heart. Mikado grins wider, waits without speaking for whatever high dramatics are about to ensue.

“I apologize,” Masaomi starts. “I have kept a secret from you for months, nay,  _years_  now, something that has the potential to tear our very friendship out by the roots!” His fingers tighten on his shirtfront, his shoulders hunch in; he’s leaning on Mikado’s shoulder, now, as if he can’t keep his footing steady. “But it seems my secret is becoming widely known, and I must tell you before others do. The truth is…” A deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. The hand at Mikado’s shoulder is clenching tighter, pressing so hard Mikado nearly flinches from the pressure. “I’m in love with you.”

There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation while Mikado waits for the second half of the sentence, or the laugh of entertainment declaring it to be a joke. He takes a breath, lets it out, takes another, and Masaomi still has his head bowed, his fingers actually pressing bruises into Mikado’s shoulder with no sign of laughter. The only thing left is for Mikado to form his throat around a laugh of his own, though it falls shaky and uncertain without Masaomi there to lead it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” he says, reaches up to close his fingers gently around Masaomi’s hand at his shoulder. “I almost believed you that time, your acting is getting better.” He doesn’t mention that the possibility makes his stomach swoop, that the very idea knocks him breathless with hope before he falls back into the comfortable reality of disbelief.

Masaomi does laugh, then, but the sound is so short and sharp Mikado hears it as more of a sob for a minute. “You think I’m joking.” He sounds a little more amused as he speaks, the words coming with some shape of his usual entertainment as his fingers go gentle at Mikado’s shoulder. He sighs, looks up. His mouth is curved around a smile, but it’s weaker than Mikado expects, catching stronger at one side of his lips than the other and not making it up the distance to his eyes. “Mikado.” That’s almost chastising, a sigh of resignation under the word. “When will you learn I’m never joking with you?”

And then he leans in over the gap between them, and presses his mouth to Mikado’s.

Even with the heat of Masaomi’s lips against his, there is a part of Mikado that still hesitates to believe. It’s like he can feel the burn of adrenaline behind a glass wall, surging higher as Masaomi doesn’t move away, as the contact lingers into unmistakable deliberation. But that disbelief is too strong, self-defense too ingrained to come down all at once, and in the hesitation Mikado can calmly and rationally see that of all the weird things to have happened to him in Ikebukuro, this might end up being the weirdest.

Then Masaomi makes a sound, a whimper or an almost-sob, far in the back of his throat, and Mikado closes his eyes as the wall shatters apart and the wave of heat hits him. His free hand comes up, brushes against Masaomi’s hip as he tries to ground himself, and apparently this is enough encouragement for Masaomi. The hand at his shoulder lets go, fingers dig in against his hair, and Masaomi isn’t offering the gentle contact of lips anymore; now he’s  _kissing_  Mikado, dragging his hands into the other’s hair and moving so fast Mikado can’t keep up, pressing in hard and opening his mouth like he’s trying to breathe the other boy into his veins directly. Mikado stumbles back a step at the force, reflex telling him to give ground under the onslaught, but Masaomi’s balance is leaning on his shoulder, and when he tries to brace his foot it comes down too far forward, sends their combined weight sliding into freefall.

Mikado shouts wordless shock as they fall, his hand at Masaomi’s hip turning into a desperate fist as if the hold will somehow save him from impact with the floor. Masaomi’s mouth falls back from his, the hands in his hair dragging painfully, and then they land heavy on the floor and every clear thought is knocked out of Mikado’s head under the white-flash of the impact. He can’t breathe for a moment, can’t do anything but blink unseeing at the ceiling, and then Masaomi gasps, “Sorry” and leans in to set his lips against Mikado’s throat instead of his mouth.

Mikado considers offering protest. In the hazy drift of not-yet pain from his landing it’s easier to focus on what’s happening, easier to piece together the separate possible explanations for what is happening right now. Masaomi is kissing him, that is undeniable, and with enough enthusiasm to leave no doubt at all of his sincerity.  _Why_  is a harder question to answer -- did he finally start to suspect the reason behind Mikado’s move to Ikebukuro? was the heat on Mikado’s tongue when they spoke finally obvious enough for even Masaomi to notice? But that doesn’t make sense, when Masaomi had framed this like a confession, or maybe that was just more of Masaomi’s dramatics, consistent even in the wildly unfamiliar situation they are in.

Then fingers brush Mikado’s hip, Masaomi’s hands fitting up under the loose fabric of his t-shirt, and hypotheticals fall away in favor of immediate attention to the situation.

“ _Masaomi._ ” It sounds like a plea and a shout at once, almost-protest falling into line with near-desperate encouragement. “Wait, slow down, what are you doing?”

The hand pushing up under Mikado’s shirt slows, stills; Masaomi draws back from the other’s throat, takes a breath so strained Mikado can hear the effort on the sound. “Sorry,” he says again, the word coming a little slower and a little less overheated. He’s staring at Mikado’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes, his voice trembling until Mikado has the horrible sensation he might be about to cry. “I didn’t expect you to --” Another pause, Masaomi’s head tipping down so his hair falls in front of his face, and Mikado has the dark sinking sensation of having accidentally ruined something beautiful.

“I’ll go,” and Masaomi’s pulling away, and this might just be an act but it’s a good one if it is, and Mikado has never been able to resist Masaomi’s dramatics.

“No, wait!” He pushes up off the floor, reaches for Masaomi’s coat as the other starts to turn away. Mikado’s head is aching from his impact with the floor, his hands shaky with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, but Masaomi looks up at the touch at his jacket and Mikado just has time, as he’s leaning in, to see the shine of real tears in the other’s eyes. But it’s too late to call back his motion, he’s already turning his head and shutting his eyes, and as their mouths come together Masaomi makes a sound of raw satisfaction that blows all other concerns clear out of Mikado’s head. He reaches up, fits his fingers carefully against the soft gold of Masaomi’s hair, and this time when Masaomi opens his mouth Mikado does the same, carefully parting his lips under the pressure of Masaomi’s tongue.

Mikado’s never kissed anyone before. He’s never had the chance to, never even come close to it; the possibility that his first kiss would be with Masaomi is something he’s only considered in daydreams, hazy imagination too absurd to be believed for a moment. It’s bizarre to have it happening to him now, to have Masaomi purring little noises of encouragement when Mikado carefully licks against the roof of his mouth and to have Masaomi’s quick fingers sliding back up under the hem of his t-shirt. The touch burns as if Masaomi is made of fire, his fingers leaving paths of shuddering heat across Mikado’s skin that linger without leaving the pain of a burn. Masaomi is shaking too, trembling against Mikado’s stalling-out touch on his hair like he’s a chord humming with sound, and Mikado can feel the breath he takes as he pulls back for a moment, the deep anxious inhale like he’s bracing himself for something.

Then the hand at Mikado’s chest slides down, over his stomach and down against the front of his jeans, and for a minute Mikado can’t think at all. His breathing sticks in his throat, his head drops forward until his forehead bumps the bridge of Masaomi’s nose, and he’s arching up off the floor, pushing up against the resistance of Masaomi’s fingers without any thought at all. His cheeks are heating, embarrassment and arousal in equal parts, but the contact of Masaomi’s fingers against him is too much to resist, when he’s never before had anything but the familiar friction of his own hand against himself.

“ _Masaomi_ ,” and it comes out like a moan, the sound catching embarrassingly at the back of Mikado’s throat. “Wh--what are you doing?”

Masaomi’s eyes are very dark and very close. When he blinks Mikado can see his eyelashes catch together, can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I’m.” He looks down, ducks his head; Mikado can feel the huff of his breath as the pressure of his hand eases, his motion going still and hesitant. “Do you want me to stop?”

Mikado can feel the thud of his heart in his chest, every heartbeat like an echo at the back of his head. The question is too much to parse, too layered over with  _should_  and  _can_  and  _will_  to pull apart in the flooding heat in his blood. He ought to stop them, ought to take this slower, ought to think about this when he’s calm and not pressed hard against the promised friction of Masaomi’s palm, but there’s a recklessness in the back of his mind, impulsive desire whiting out his logic like it does, sometimes, the promise of  _something interesting_  enough to override  _safety_.

“No,” he hears himself saying, and when he lifts his head to meet Masaomi’s incoming kiss he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until their lips meet, the shape of the expression making the contact awkward and lopsided. But Masaomi just laughs, the sound bright and warm and more sincere than any other he has made since he arrived, and he’s pressing in with his hand again. Mikado’s thoughts are short-circuiting, flickering into white-hot pleasure like sparks are invading his bloodstream, and he’s clinging to Masaomi’s arm, pressing his fingers hard against the other’s forearm like he’s trying to keep himself from floating away.

“Slow down, Mikado,” Masaomi is saying, his voice coming warm and familiar and echoing like it’s at the end of a tunnel. “I don’t even have your jeans open yet” and the words bring an image crystal-clear into Mikado’s head, the impression of hot fingers directly against him, and he’s gone, control slipping through his fingers like ice melted to water. His hand tightens at Masaomi’s arm, his throat twists on a groan, and when he arches up he’s coming before he can think about it, before he can even attempt to hold it back, satisfaction coursing through his veins like all his blood has evaporated into steam.

Masaomi is laughing when Mikado can focus on his hearing again, breathless little gasps of surprise and delight like bubbles on his tongue. “You were even faster than I expected,” he’s saying, and it would be insulting if he weren’t smiling like he’s pleased with himself, if he weren’t drawing his hand away from Mikado’s damp jeans to press his fingers against the other’s hair. “Was that your first time?”

“Shut up,” Mikado protests, and Masaomi laughs again, giggling over his lips as Mikado shoves at the other’s shoulders. He’s smiling too, pleasure heavy in his limbs more than enough to counteract the embarrassment of the situation, and Masaomi falls back with complete willingness, leaning back to lie across the floor so Mikado can lean in over him.

“I didn’t expect to be your first,” Masaomi teases as Mikado pushes at the edge of his shirt, trying to restrain the worst of his blush at the taut-stretched fabric of the other’s jeans speaking to his interest. “I’m sorry I didn’t save myself for you, Mikado, I’m afraid I’ll take a little more than just grinding against your hand.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Mikado protests, his flush now radiant under his whole face. “I didn’t even know you  _liked_  guys.”

“I like you,” Masaomi says, his voice weirdly soft all at once, and Mikado looks up from Masaomi’s half-undone jeans to catch unexpected softness in the other’s eyes. It’s startling, to see that sincere warmth in the familiar shadows of Masaomi’s gaze, the corners of his eyes gone soft with affection. For a moment Mikado can’t breathe at all, can’t think straight enough to remember what he was doing; then Masaomi grins, chases away the gentle expression into more ordinary amusement, and Mikado can look down again, can take a breath and blush darker as he gets the other boy’s zipper down.

It’s as he’s reaching for Masaomi’s boxers, his hands moving with that same impetuous excitement that brought him here in the first place, that he can see the other flinch. It’s a tiny thing, barely a flicker of a movement across his body, but with his jeans half-off the tremor is clearly visible as it jolts up the other’s stomach. Mikado looks up but Masaomi isn’t looking at him at all; he’s lying back on the floor now, staring at the ceiling with his lip between his teeth like he’s forgotten he’s chewing against it.

“Masaomi?” Mikado asks, his voice sounding higher and younger than it usually does. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Masaomi says, a little fast and a little loud. “Keep going.”

Mikado can’t quite get his bearings. Something’s wrong, he can hear it in Masaomi’s voice and see it tightening across the line of his stomach, but the other boy is still hard, dampening the front of his boxers in a patch that is as reassuring as it is embarrassing. Mikado reaches out carefully, catches his fingers against the edge of Masaomi’s boxers, and when he draws them down he’s looking at the shape of the other boy’s cock instead of his face, doesn’t see the way Masaomi’s forehead creases as his clothes slide down.

Mikado lets all his breath out in a rush. It’s not like he’s seeing anything all that surprising, really, but there’s still a rush of heat under his skin at the incontrovertible evidence that Masaomi  _does_  want him, actually, that his interest hasn’t failed or even slipped as a result of Mikado’s too-fast response. It’s thrilling, it rushes through his mind on a wave of delighted power, and when he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the shape of the other boy Mikado’s flushed and thrilled with the possibility of Masaomi’s reaction.

He’s not at all expecting what happens. Masaomi’s hand snaps out, closes hard on his wrist to hold him still, and he’s sitting up all at once, a rush of motion more whip-quick defensive than graceful. His shoulders are hunched, his head tipped forward to cast his face in the shadow of his hair, and he’s breathing hard with panic instead of the pleasure Mikado was expecting.

“ _Stop_ ” he blurts, as if Mikado had kept moving, as if the other boy hadn’t let his hold go immediately at Masaomi’s reaction. Masaomi’s voice is shaking, his hold is trembling desperation against Mikado’s wrist, and for a minute Mikado’s stomach is plummeting into free-fall, panic and certainty of having done something wrong arcing through him like he’s being electrocuted.

“I’m sorry!” he says, loud and too-fast, but Masaomi is talking over him, managing, “Sorry, sorry, not your hands, please, anything else is fine just not your hand.” He’s not looking up, his voice is cracking over the words, and Mikado has that same sense from before, that there’s something here he’s not seeing, some logic in the back of Masaomi’s mind he’s missing. But his heart is pounding in fear of doing something wrong, of having done something wrong already, and what he says is “Yeah, sure, okay, I’m so sorry,” even though he’s not sure what exactly he’s apologizing for.

Masaomi shakes his head, still with his chin dipped so Mikado can’t see his face. “It’s not your fault,” he says, and the words are sincere, resonant with some second meaning Mikado can’t parse. “Can you try your mouth, instead?”

“Sure,” Mikado says. He’s sure he’d agree to anything, at this point, to take the strain out of Masaomi’s voice, has offered compliance before realizing the ramifications of that. “Uh. I’m not actually sure --”

“It’s okay.” Masaomi takes a breath, lifts his chin. There’s something behind his eyes, a shadow still lingering in his gaze, but his smile is warm and apologetic, his voice an attempt at normalcy again. “I’m a pro at getting blowjobs, I’ll talk you through it.”

Mikado laughs, because he’s supposed to, and if it’s a little weak Masaomi doesn’t comment on it. It’s easier to duck his head than he expected, easier to take on the unknown than the uncanny almost-familiarity of Masaomi’s expression, and then he’s at eye-level with Masaomi’s hips, the top of his head bumping against the other boy’s stomach as fingers curl gently into his hair.

“Just lick,” Masaomi says over his head, his voice nearly normal again. “Or suck, or both. Careful with your teeth.”

Mikado swallows. “Okay.” He’s close enough that he can feel how hot Masaomi has gone, can see the damp catching at the flushed head of the other boy’s cock. His heart is pounding, his thoughts whirling too fast to process, so he does the easiest thing, and shuts his eyes as he stretches to lick against the hot skin.

Masaomi groans over him, a burst of sound so low and trembling there’s no question of his appreciation. The sound burns down Mikado’s spine, far more effective encouragement than the bitter on his tongue, and he tries again, pushing aside the salty stickiness against his lips to focus on the sound of Masaomi breathing harder over him and the tension at the fingers in his hair.

“Perfect,” Masaomi’s voice gasps. “You can suck, too, if you want.”

Mikado opens his eyes to orient himself, to steady out his surroundings against the dizzying rush of blood to his head. He has to open his mouth wider than he expected, to get Masaomi past the edge of his teeth and back over his tongue, but the other boy whines appreciation over him, tilts his hips up in a tiny motion of encouragement.

Mikado has no idea what it was he did wrong to begin with; in the end, this feels more awkward, his movements clumsy with inexperience and sloppy with the damp of his tongue and the occasional slick salt off Masaomi’s cock. But Masaomi is shuddering pleasure, his fingers smoothing gently through Mikado’s hair, and his panicked tension of before is gone like it never existed. The only strain in him now is the pull of anticipation in his legs, the flutter of pleasure across the edge of his stomach that Mikado can see, and Mikado’s jaw is just starting to ache with the angle he’s holding it at when Masaomi whimpers low in his throat and jerks up against his mouth. The hot stickiness of him coming is bitter on Mikado’s tongue, burns against his throat when he swallows the liquid back, but when he pulls away to look up Masaomi is looking at him with so much softness in his eyes that Mikado forgets all about the salt on his tongue and the ache in his jaw.

Masaomi is the one to reach out for Mikado’s shoulders, to maintain his hold as he leans back so he drags the other boy down on top of him. Mikado tries to offer protest: “Masaomi, I need to change my jeans!” but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in when urged, setting aside his concern for the sticky mess against his skin in favor of falling atop the other’s shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Masaomi declares to the top of Mikado’s head, his voice loud to fill the room with its presence. “You can’t run away after we’ve consummated our undying love for each other, Mikado. Don’t you want to bask in my presence?”

Mikado laughs against Masaomi’s shirt, submits to the weight of the other’s arm falling across his shoulders. It’s true that there’s not a rush for clean clothes, true that he’d rather be here, sticky lips and dirty clothes and all, than tidy and clean and alone in his room.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t ask about the other’s reaction, when the silence forms long enough to give him ample opportunity. The question is clear on his tongue, curiosity burning in the back of his head. But he doesn’t speak, turns his head in to press his lips to Masaomi’s shoulder instead, and when the other relaxes into relief against the floor he thinks he might have found a good enough reason.

Intuition whispers that he might not want to know the answer to this particular question, anyway.


	3. Shizu-chan

Izaya is leaning against the couch when Shizuo comes home.

It’s not a complete surprise; the lack of resistance when the blond turned the key in the lock was a tip-off, telltale given that he never leaves the door unlocked and that only one person he knows would bother to pick it. It’s still enough to set his teeth on edge, even more so than Izaya usually manages alone, brings him seething into the apartment as he slams the door shut behind him with more force than he intended.

“ _Izaya-kun_.” The syllables feel like a curse on his tongue, carrying the weight of a threat as they hiss past his teeth. “What are you  _doing_  here?”

Izaya’s mouth falls into a pout, his eyes going wide in the worst imitation of innocence Shizuo has ever seen. “Shizu-chan.” That’s supposed to be hurt, probably; it would sound sincere, on someone else’s tongue. “Is that any way to greet a visitor? It’s no wonder you never have guests, if this is the state of your manners.”

Shizuo growls, threats sliding incoherent in his throat, takes a step forward to close the distance between the two of them. Izaya laughs, hold his hands up palm-out in a show of capitulation Shizuo believes no more than his smile.

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” and at least that purr is sincere, that tone has all the danger of true Izaya under it. “You know I only ever come here for one reason.” Shizuo’s eyes drop from the threat of Izaya’s eyes to the front of his jeans, pulled there inexorably by the suggestion under his words, and Izaya laughs, tips his hips forward so the tension against the zipper becomes transparently obvious.

“I knew you could figure it out,” he says, and Shizuo wants to hit him, wants to shove him out the door and slam the weight of it in his face, but his body is betraying him, heat rising in his blood like it’s being drawn magnetic to Izaya’s, and when he lunges in to grab at Izaya’s shoulder it’s his mouth that hits Izaya’s smile instead of his knuckles. He can feel the scrape of teeth at his lip, Izaya’s laugh cut short by the friction of his mouth before he bites at Shizuo’s skin, and this is all familiar, this is a game Shizuo knows all the rules to.

Then he takes a breath, sucking air hard through his nose, and everything twists sideways, goes uncanny and wrong even as Izaya is opening his mouth to purr encouragement and slide his tongue in against Shizuo’s. It’s enough to pull the blond back, to bring his hand up to a fist on dark hair so he can twist Izaya away, arch his neck back to keep his mouth free.

“You  _smell_  wrong” and he does, there’s the usual burn of oil-slick heat in Shizuo’s nose but it’s layered over, some less heated scent catching against the top like a transparent veil drawn over a familiar scene. Shizuo ducks his head, presses his nose to the shoulder of Izaya’s shirt, and when he breathes in it’s like it’s someone else pressed against him, like there’s a second person fitting into the gaps between their bodies.

Shizuo doesn’t process the heat that tears through him as jealousy. It doesn’t feel like any emotion that can be restrained with something like words; it’s a feral force, as vicious and full-bodied as the rage that sometimes takes his body from his mind and moves his muscles without his permission.

“ _You let someone else touch you_ ” and he’s shoving Izaya off-balance, tightening his fingers hard at the back of the other’s neck to shove him across the room towards the bedroom. Shizuo can feel the flutter of Izaya’s pulse pounding under the pressure of his fingertips, can feel the tension of Izaya trying to catch his balance as Shizuo propels them forward fast enough to keep the other stumbling. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care that Izaya is laughing instead of whimpering, barely recognizes his own voice under the growl in his throat. “How  _dare_  you.”

“I didn’t think you were possessive, Shizu-chan,” Izaya pouts, but he’s laughing, there’s amused delight belying his claim. Shizuo shoves at the other’s neck, sends his feet stuttering in a barely-controlled fall across the room while he stalks in the other’s wake. Izaya catches himself at the edge of the bed, braces a hand against the sheets, and he’s half-turning so Shizuo can just see the glint of color in his eyes before he closes his hand on Izaya’s shoulder and shoves him back over the bed.

“I’ll kill you,” he spits. “You come  _here_  smelling like  _someone else_  and you expect me to  _fuck_  you?”

“Of course,” Izaya smiles, expression showing no sign of concern at the way Shizuo’s fingers brace against the base of his throat, the way the other’s hand digs in against his airway. “What better way to reestablish your claim?”

Shizuo wishes he could resist. He wishes he could push away, could kick Izaya out of his apartment if only to deny the other the satisfaction of being right. But the suggestion shoots through him like electricity, offers an outlet for the furious ache of jealousy under his skin, and when he growls it has the low undercurrent of agreement to it, makes Izaya laugh as Shizuo fists his free hand in the other’s shirt to shove it high up his chest. Izaya doesn’t resist at all, doesn’t even offer a protest when Shizuo jerks hard enough on the zipper of his jeans to jar the metal teeth out of alignment. He just arches his back, tilts his hips up to make an offering of the heat under his boxers, and Shizuo hisses incoherent frustration and drags the dark of Izaya’s jeans off the shape of his legs. He looks fragile without the defensive shadows of his clothes, satisfyingly vulnerable to the strength of Shizuo’s fingers, and when the blond shoves sideways to flip Izaya onto his stomach the pressure leaves red friction printed against the other’s skin.

“Be gentle or you really will kill me,” Izaya croons, rocks his hips down against the bed like he’s intrigued by the idea. Words notwithstanding he looks calm, not a flicker of fright visible in his eyes when he glances sideways or across his face, even when Shizuo shoves futile force against his shoulders.

“Shut  _up_.” With the jeans off it’s easy to strip Izaya’s boxers off one-handed, to leave the white-pale of his skin running in a smooth line up along the backs of his legs all the way to the edge of the shirt rumpled against the curve of his back. Izaya stops talking but he switches to laughing, giggling against the sheets like he can’t hold back his amusement. Shizuo doesn’t bother trying to cut off the sound -- he knows from experience that’s a useless attempt. It’s easier to just suck wet over his fingers, to slide his hand down to shove Izaya against the bed and hold him steady while Shizuo presses the saliva-slick of his fingers into the other.

He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle, with Izaya, but that’s never won him so much as a whimper of pain out of the other’s throat. Today is no exception, even though Shizuo can feel the force of jealous aggression tightening vicious under his arm, working his movements faster even than usual. Izaya just groans, a full-throated sound as much taunting as it is pleasured, his body tightening around Shizuo’s fingers in a shudder that feels wholly genuine.

The reaction brings another possible explanation to Shizuo’s head, grits fury into his jaw and thrusts his fingers in deeper, hard enough that Izaya’s back arches under him and the other’s legs quiver with the force. “Did you let him  _fuck_  you?” The word becomes raw rage on Shizuo’s tongue, heat hissing into steam in his throat, until the tension of Izaya clenching around his fingers only serves to add fuel to his suspicious rage.

“No,” Izaya says, still sounding amused until Shizuo draws his hand back and shoves back in all at once. “ _Ah_. Be  _gentle_ , Shizu-chan, I said  _no_.” That sounds more genuine, sounds like real sincerity, and some of the knot of bitterness in Shizuo’s chest loosens into the more ordinary heat of desire.

“Good,” Shizuo says. Izaya’s pressing hard against the bed, grinding his hips down against Shizuo’s sheets in time with the movement of the other’s hand, and Shizuo is still aching with possessiveness, with the need to mark all Izaya’s body as his own. Izaya whines when he pulls his hand free, a breathless sound of protest drawn taut over anticipation, and Shizuo hisses wordless response, keeps his hold to brace Izaya in place while he pulls his own slacks open and gets a knee up on the bed alongside Izaya’s hip. The fabric draws tight against his legs, catching awkward and dangerously close to tearing at the seams, but Shizuo doesn’t bother to reposition himself. He’s too busy pushing his clothes half-off his hips, spitting damp against his palm so he can drag his hand over himself with the uneven lubrication of saliva. It’s better than nothing, at least, and it’s not like he’s concerned with Izaya; he’s interested in haste, above all else, interested in fisting a handful of Izaya’s hair and shoving his face against the sheets, holding the other down between his hip and his hair so Shizuo can shift his hips into position and rock forward blindly. The movement is rough, their alignment off for lack of care, but Shizuo hisses and Izaya tips his hips up, and Shizuo’s cock catches and sinks into the heat of the other’s body. Izaya makes a sound, the details lost to the sheets, but Shizuo’s groan of victory is clear in the room, physical satisfaction hitting mental pleasure until his whole body is humming hot with vicious delight.

“Mine,” he says, coherency coming back as the fury of jealous fades, as he burns his friction into Izaya’s body. “You don’t let anyone but me fuck you, Izaya-kun, I’ll kill you if you do.” Izaya makes another sound, the meaning lost to the bed, and the blond pulls at his hair, turns his head sideways so he can see the tension of sensation creasing Izaya’s forehead and the heat panting against his lips.

“Okay,” Izaya says, rocks his hips down against the bed. His tongue slides past his lips, trails damp over them before he flashes a grin and glances sideways. “You really are an animal, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo snaps, thrusts forward hard so Izaya’s eyes shut for a moment and he makes a sharp noise of shock at the impact. There’s a wave of tension through Izaya’s body, the first outline of satisfaction coming for him, and Shizuo leans in closer, squeezes tighter to bruise against Izaya’s hip. “What  _did_  you do, then?” Curiosity is burning under his skin, reckless unconcern for what answer he gets in the reassurance of possession, and he’s flushing hot, his shirt starting to stick to the sweat forming against his shoulderblades. “You didn’t let him fuck you. Did you fuck  _him_?”

Izaya rolls his eyes, grinds in against the bed. “Hardly. I didn’t even come, that’s why I’m here in the first place.” Shizuo shoves into him again, drives the air out of Izaya’s lungs in an audible rush, and Izaya has to gasp a breath before he manages a gasping laugh. “Why do you even care?”

Shizuo lets Izaya’s hip go, pushes his hand down between Izaya’s hips and the bed. The other is hard against the mattress, his cock slick and sticking to the sheets; he starts to moan satisfaction as Shizuo’s hand closes on him, the sound cutting off into a whimper of protest as the blond tightens his grip past the point of friction, presses hard against the base of the other’s length.

“Tell me,” he hisses. “Or you won’t come now either.”

“Don’t be  _stupid_ ,” Izaya pants. He’s rocking forward, trying to grind against Shizuo’s grip but not getting any real traction off his movements. “I was just helping him realize his true feelings.” Shizuo drives forward again, watches the way Izaya’s expression goes slack with heat for a moment. “You don’t have any competition to worry about.” A blink, dark lashes sliding over bright eyes, and Izaya’s looking sideways at Shizuo, his mouth pulling sharp into a laugh around the gasp of his breathing. “It’s not like he wanted it anyway.”

Shizuo’s rhythm stutters, the cold running down his spine enough to stall his motions for a moment. They’re both still for a heartbeat, Shizuo still flushed and aching with anticipation, Izaya breathing hard against the sheets and so hard Shizuo can feel every heartbeat under his grip against Izaya’s cock.

Then Shizuo shuts his eyes, ducks his head and starts moving again, faster and harder now like he’s trying to outrun that chill under his skin. Izaya makes a noise of protest when Shizuo’s hold doesn’t loosen, rocks his hips like he’s trying to remind the blond of his grip, and then he says something Shizuo doesn’t listen to. It doesn’t matter. Shizuo’s hold doesn’t falter, his fingers stay tight even as the heat in his blood crests and rushes over him, granting him at least physical satisfaction as he comes into Izaya. Izaya’s still moving, rocking his hips in frustration through the pulses of Shizuo’s orgasm, hissing threats now as much as encouragement, but with Shizuo’s hands on him he can’t break free, can’t move at all until Shizuo slides out of him and lets his hold go, drawing back to put a few steps of distance between them as fast as he can.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Izaya hisses, rolling over to fix Shizuo with a glare and a snarl more sincerely furious than Shizuo has ever seen from him before. He’s reaching out to close his fingers around himself, to jerk himself up over the edge into satisfaction now that Shizuo’s hold on him is gone. “What the  _fuck_ , Shizu-chan, do you think this is a  _game_?”

“Get out.” Shizuo can feel the cold along his spine spreading, pushing aside the lingering heat of pleasure in his veins until there’s no room for anything but ice. “Get out of my house.”

Izaya heaves a sigh, rolls his eyes. “You can at least give me the time to finish myself off since you won’t--”

“Get  _out_.” Colder still, that, heavy on his tongue like it’s made of lead. “If I can still see you in thirty seconds I will kill you, Orihara.”

Shizuo has never before seen the expression that Izaya makes. His eyes flicker wide, his mouth going slack until there’s no trace of his usual smirk anywhere. Shizuo never realized, before, how frightened his eyes look without that smile.

“Shizu--”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

There’s a pause, a moment while Shizuo counts off seconds in his head. Then Izaya’s moving, sliding off the bed to pick up his abandoned clothes before making for the door. Shizuo thinks he might hesitate in the entrance to the other room, might be about to say something, but he doesn’t look to see, and after a moment the complete lack of sound speaks to Izaya ghosting noiselessly into the living room.

Shizuo shuts the door to the bedroom without turning, leans his shoulders against the weight and tips his head back. He can’t hear Izaya moving on the other side, but after a minute there’s the drag of the front door opening, a click as it swings shut. Shizuo lets his breath out, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette from the crumpled pack.

He’s still cold by the time he’s smoked it down to ashes.


End file.
